Blogging has been at the bottom of my list of late, but I've come out of perpetual blog hiding to make an announcement which I will not revoke.
In September of 2013 I wrote a blog telling everyone who read it that I was doing something I had wanted to do for years: Write a book. Instead of doing it, I placed my finger on the delete button shortly after I began, and hid the story in my heart instead. I broke my own rule, one of the rules I endeavor never to break: I went back on my word.
On August 1st, 2016 I reignited that promise, and this time, I will not break it.
On August 14, 2016 The work received its title, courtesy of my favorite teenager in the world. Most will tell you that a great writer never titles a work until it's finished, but this time, I made an exception. It is my hope that every person has experienced the genuine wisdom and opinions of 14 year old people. Thank you, Elizabeth, for being, in your own words "the apprentice".
*No, I'm not going to tell you the title. You'll have to wait :)
Here's what I will tell you:
1) If all goes as I hope it will, the first copy of this finished work will be in the hands of my first reader on March 25, 2017.
2) Right now I'm sitting at the local starbucks in a hoodie, shaking a little, because I know I have to do it this time, and I will.
3) If you know me, you know that I have strong opinions about the impact of social media on relationships/our youth. So, at the end of August/early September, I will be disabling (not deleting) all social media accounts in an effort to create authentic time and space until I have accomplished what I have said I would do. *I will pop on on my birthday in December, and to wish you all a Merry Christmas*
4) I will potentially send out updates via email. If you want to be included in that list, please notify me via Facebook (before the first week of September) or text.
5) If you have been an active part of my life, there is a chance you may see yourself in this work. Please notify me if you are opposed to that.
I guess that sums it up...
Take care of yourselves, and plant seeds everywhere you go,
~C
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Stones from who knows where...
For K- Who saw the stone
And D- Who gave it to me
What a week!
Life is so rich and full that in the course of a single day one can experience things that alter it forever.
We all experience those marks and movements that make us better, and make us brave. It would be silly for me to believe that I am the only one among us who understands the altering possibilities of a day.
This week, and if I'm honest, the last several weeks, have been full of genuine mercy. So much mercy. Severe at times, but mercy can be that, too.
Last night I scraped the edges of the conditioner bottle and decided it's almost time to buy more, which led me to be grateful I had the luxury of conditioner in the first place...
And I thought of the story I read yesterday morning before I scraped those edges. It's a story of someone in the Bible who has long been cherished by this heart. If you've read the Bible for any length of time, or even if you haven't, you probably know His name, and the bulk of his story. However, most people, Christian or not, don't talk about him much in the full context of the story...
His name is Noah, and while you probably immediately associate him with an ark full of animals (I don't blame you), I associate him most with the action he took after exiting the ark.
To fully understand Noah's position in the midst of the times, you have to go back to Genesis. In that time people had turned from God, the world was a mess, and it's recorded that "Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord." So, he does what God tells him to *build a big boat, put the animals on it, it's going to rain.* Rather than ask what rain is, or drag his feet, Noah builds a houseboat on dry land with enough room for everyone from Aardvark to Zebra. He doesn't just shut the door, either. He implores people to come into the ark, and they scoff at Him. So, he takes his wife, three sons and three daughters in law, and he seals the door of the ark behind them.
And it rains.
and rains.
and it keeps raining.
The whole earth is wet. No one else survives.
Eventually the rain stops.
When the door opens there are many things Noah could chose to do...but it's what he does that gets me.
In the midst of the realization that everyone else has perished, and all that's left are eight people (who are far from perfect, read the story) and some animals, Noah could have wept, screamed, given up, been afraid. But the Bible says he built an altar (with stones from where? I want to know!) And HE WORSHIPPED GOD.
Let me stop here and tell you that NOAH WAS NOT PERFECT... at one point in the story he gets drunk and curses one of his sons, it was the biblical version of something on Jerry Springer...oh the humanity...but Noah generally desired to honor God, and as imperfect people, we live imperfect lives.
We keep going. It gets me every time though that Noah could have chosen something different. Something less productive. He chose worship. Noah is one of my fallback stories. Always. For several reasons, but for this one above all: Eight people exited the ark that day. Those eight are the only ones who lived at that moment. The population was now their responsibility...and everyone else was dead. Let's be honest: OH NO!
In the midst of that moment, that empty, broken, potentially lamentable moment, Noah chose worship. Not only that...but he built the altar himself... with stones from who knows where.
My heart is unbelievably humbled that in the midst of life (good and difficult) there is always cause to worship. I am grateful, too, for the people who surround me, and love me enough to remind me of the stones that build my altar.
Build,
Courtney
And D- Who gave it to me
What a week!
Life is so rich and full that in the course of a single day one can experience things that alter it forever.
We all experience those marks and movements that make us better, and make us brave. It would be silly for me to believe that I am the only one among us who understands the altering possibilities of a day.
This week, and if I'm honest, the last several weeks, have been full of genuine mercy. So much mercy. Severe at times, but mercy can be that, too.
Last night I scraped the edges of the conditioner bottle and decided it's almost time to buy more, which led me to be grateful I had the luxury of conditioner in the first place...
And I thought of the story I read yesterday morning before I scraped those edges. It's a story of someone in the Bible who has long been cherished by this heart. If you've read the Bible for any length of time, or even if you haven't, you probably know His name, and the bulk of his story. However, most people, Christian or not, don't talk about him much in the full context of the story...
His name is Noah, and while you probably immediately associate him with an ark full of animals (I don't blame you), I associate him most with the action he took after exiting the ark.
To fully understand Noah's position in the midst of the times, you have to go back to Genesis. In that time people had turned from God, the world was a mess, and it's recorded that "Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord." So, he does what God tells him to *build a big boat, put the animals on it, it's going to rain.* Rather than ask what rain is, or drag his feet, Noah builds a houseboat on dry land with enough room for everyone from Aardvark to Zebra. He doesn't just shut the door, either. He implores people to come into the ark, and they scoff at Him. So, he takes his wife, three sons and three daughters in law, and he seals the door of the ark behind them.
And it rains.
and rains.
and it keeps raining.
The whole earth is wet. No one else survives.
Eventually the rain stops.
When the door opens there are many things Noah could chose to do...but it's what he does that gets me.
In the midst of the realization that everyone else has perished, and all that's left are eight people (who are far from perfect, read the story) and some animals, Noah could have wept, screamed, given up, been afraid. But the Bible says he built an altar (with stones from where? I want to know!) And HE WORSHIPPED GOD.
Let me stop here and tell you that NOAH WAS NOT PERFECT... at one point in the story he gets drunk and curses one of his sons, it was the biblical version of something on Jerry Springer...oh the humanity...but Noah generally desired to honor God, and as imperfect people, we live imperfect lives.
We keep going. It gets me every time though that Noah could have chosen something different. Something less productive. He chose worship. Noah is one of my fallback stories. Always. For several reasons, but for this one above all: Eight people exited the ark that day. Those eight are the only ones who lived at that moment. The population was now their responsibility...and everyone else was dead. Let's be honest: OH NO!
In the midst of that moment, that empty, broken, potentially lamentable moment, Noah chose worship. Not only that...but he built the altar himself... with stones from who knows where.
My heart is unbelievably humbled that in the midst of life (good and difficult) there is always cause to worship. I am grateful, too, for the people who surround me, and love me enough to remind me of the stones that build my altar.
Build,
Courtney
Friday, September 18, 2015
Why I Hope it Never Gets Easier
"Cause even the stars they burn, some even fall to the earth, we've got a lot to learn, but God knows we're worth it." ~Jason Mraz
I haven't blogged in a really long time. I started this blog in law school for the girls I mentored, and it was a joy to write to encourage them. This is perhaps the rawest blog I've written, but it's all true.
9/17/15
When Ashley died in May of 2011, people told me "it will get easier with time."
At first, I was really offended by that comment. I thought it was harsh & unfeeling for anyone to say that my heart would be less affected by grief as time passed. I found myself hoping it was true, and praying it wasn't at the same time.
Two and a half years later I was shaken again when someone I love dearly lost her pastor husband to suicide. I wrestled with it incredibly and was told the same thing... "It gets easier with time."
The day before I turned 21 the air was crisp and chilly & I stepped into the car of someone I would take a bullet for. I still remember the story she told me about how another person had physically harmed her. I remember reaching up and touching the bruises on her arms and then taking her face in my hands. I remember his name to this day, and though the person who told me the story is someone I am so proud of, and someone I cherish immensely, I doubt very seriously that she realizes how that moment made me different.
That day I realized some things aren't intended to get easier with time.
I hope I'm always moved by Ashley's memory, by the prevalence of suicide, and by bruises. Over the past few days I've been confronted with the horrors of child abuse & neglect. My own childhood had trials I wouldn't wish on anyone, but, now, as an adult, my job is to be the voice for the ones who need an advocate. I met a child with a bruise, and my heart was ignited with the same fury I felt that day in the car. I stopped right there and prayed that this would never get easier for me.
People are so quick to desire things that feel good. In the process, we invalidate the things that may, on some level, make us more passionate. Don't get me wrong, I don't love my funny walk, my tumultuous beginnings, or the heartache I felt/feel when I lose a loved one or see a bruise that I know someone else inflicted. But, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge those moments/experiences as ones that made me better, and better equipped to fight.
I miss Ashley. I hate that Stephen lost hope. I would love to do cartwheels, and I want to puke when I know anyone has endured a bruise at another's hand. These are truths that fuel my fire, and as I endeavor to eliminate abuse from the lives of kiddos, I hope it never gets easier for me to deal with.
A couple weeks ago I played phone tag with the loved one who shared lunch (and her bruises) with me on that last day of my 20th year. Since then, I have encountered many bruises and remembered that day many times. I have thanked God it still isn't easy for me to see a bruise, hear of a suicide, or see someone lose a dear friend.
These are things that make me work harder and burn brighter for the bruised or grieving children who confide in me. And, as much as I hate the funny walk, it really does serve to help the kids feel safe when they ask about it and I respond with a laugh and explain. They come to me hurting beyond measure, and I can laugh with them because my walk IS funny. They never know the righteous anger that mingles with my love and concerns for them because the love wins, and it's what heals.
They don't see or feel the lump in my throat as I see their bruises and know their stories. They don't know that I wrestle with only being able to do so much, because to them, it means SO MUCH, and I know it. It's beautiful and brutal, and I hope I always feel that way because it means I'll fight harder.
And until the fight is won, I hope it never gets easier to go to battle.
I haven't blogged in a really long time. I started this blog in law school for the girls I mentored, and it was a joy to write to encourage them. This is perhaps the rawest blog I've written, but it's all true.
9/17/15
When Ashley died in May of 2011, people told me "it will get easier with time."
At first, I was really offended by that comment. I thought it was harsh & unfeeling for anyone to say that my heart would be less affected by grief as time passed. I found myself hoping it was true, and praying it wasn't at the same time.
Two and a half years later I was shaken again when someone I love dearly lost her pastor husband to suicide. I wrestled with it incredibly and was told the same thing... "It gets easier with time."
The day before I turned 21 the air was crisp and chilly & I stepped into the car of someone I would take a bullet for. I still remember the story she told me about how another person had physically harmed her. I remember reaching up and touching the bruises on her arms and then taking her face in my hands. I remember his name to this day, and though the person who told me the story is someone I am so proud of, and someone I cherish immensely, I doubt very seriously that she realizes how that moment made me different.
That day I realized some things aren't intended to get easier with time.
I hope I'm always moved by Ashley's memory, by the prevalence of suicide, and by bruises. Over the past few days I've been confronted with the horrors of child abuse & neglect. My own childhood had trials I wouldn't wish on anyone, but, now, as an adult, my job is to be the voice for the ones who need an advocate. I met a child with a bruise, and my heart was ignited with the same fury I felt that day in the car. I stopped right there and prayed that this would never get easier for me.
People are so quick to desire things that feel good. In the process, we invalidate the things that may, on some level, make us more passionate. Don't get me wrong, I don't love my funny walk, my tumultuous beginnings, or the heartache I felt/feel when I lose a loved one or see a bruise that I know someone else inflicted. But, I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge those moments/experiences as ones that made me better, and better equipped to fight.
I miss Ashley. I hate that Stephen lost hope. I would love to do cartwheels, and I want to puke when I know anyone has endured a bruise at another's hand. These are truths that fuel my fire, and as I endeavor to eliminate abuse from the lives of kiddos, I hope it never gets easier for me to deal with.
A couple weeks ago I played phone tag with the loved one who shared lunch (and her bruises) with me on that last day of my 20th year. Since then, I have encountered many bruises and remembered that day many times. I have thanked God it still isn't easy for me to see a bruise, hear of a suicide, or see someone lose a dear friend.
These are things that make me work harder and burn brighter for the bruised or grieving children who confide in me. And, as much as I hate the funny walk, it really does serve to help the kids feel safe when they ask about it and I respond with a laugh and explain. They come to me hurting beyond measure, and I can laugh with them because my walk IS funny. They never know the righteous anger that mingles with my love and concerns for them because the love wins, and it's what heals.
They don't see or feel the lump in my throat as I see their bruises and know their stories. They don't know that I wrestle with only being able to do so much, because to them, it means SO MUCH, and I know it. It's beautiful and brutal, and I hope I always feel that way because it means I'll fight harder.
And until the fight is won, I hope it never gets easier to go to battle.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Sharing My Skittles: On grieving deeply, and loving beyond that.
"There are far, far, better things ahead than any we leave behind." C.S. Lewis
Almost four years ago I sat on my couch dumbfounded as a Facebook post unintentionally notified me that someone I had lived with and loved with had stepped into the arms of Jesus.
I love Ashley still, it's not past tense, and grieving her absence has been a process that teaches me more about myself by the day. Almost four years have passed, and I say openly that the most difficult phase of the process thus far has been a moment last August, when I watched a video of Joey, Ashley's former husband, and the father of her child, marry again.
Today is Abigail's (Joey's wife) birthday, and in an effort to express myself, I'm writing to her, and to you, if you're someone who has lost a loved one, lost heart, or simply need to remember that all that stands before us is greater than anything we leave behind...
Dear Abigail,
Happy Birthday!
I wish you could understand just how much your life has impacted mine, though as of right now, we have never been in the same room.
You know who I am, and maybe you know something of the grief I've experienced, but you should also know you've helped me overcome it.
You are so loved. Joey is so blessed, but, so are you.
The daughter you love was nurtured and cherished beneath a heart you never knew, but I wish you had. Oh, how I wish you had. Had you known Ashley, you would have known a person who startled the daylights out ofpeople um...me, every day when she came home from work because she let the door slam loudly in an effort to get her arms around me more quickly. You would have met a girl who enthusiastically greeted life, and hugged so tightly she almost took you down in the process. You would have known a girl who squeezed the toothpaste from the middle *sigh*, woke up singing, and had a fierce loyalty for her people. I have no doubt this girl I wish you'd been able to meet would have offered her life for me, or you, unless of course it was a spider who threatened it...in that case, it would have been every girl for herself.
You would have met a girl who liked only the red skittles. I agreed with her. We always told one another "I love you a million red skittles." The reds are the best skittles, so they are the only ones that can be used in an expression of love :).
Here's where I get to what I came here to say:
Your life taught me something. It's this: When people go to be with Jesus, no one can ever take their place, but love is never to be thwarted by death. Indeed, Jesus himself taught us that death was defeated, conquered, and shamed by love. Grief is no joke. It's real, it's human, and it's necessary whenlife death happens, even Jesus grieved, but... Grieving like Jesus doesn't give anyone an excuse to stop loving like Him, right?
Thank you for offering me a chance to put my money where my mouth is, to love beyond the shattered terrain of my grief, and to remember that nothing is worth turning your back on the opportunity to pour out the vastness of His love on another person.
I will ever be willing to share my red skittles with you, and I say without reservation that I love you a million red skittles, not just because that's what Jesus (and Ashley) would want, but because, I promise, it's absolutely true.
Happy Birthday, darling. There are far, far better things ahead.
A million red skittles, always,
Courtney
Almost four years ago I sat on my couch dumbfounded as a Facebook post unintentionally notified me that someone I had lived with and loved with had stepped into the arms of Jesus.
I love Ashley still, it's not past tense, and grieving her absence has been a process that teaches me more about myself by the day. Almost four years have passed, and I say openly that the most difficult phase of the process thus far has been a moment last August, when I watched a video of Joey, Ashley's former husband, and the father of her child, marry again.
Today is Abigail's (Joey's wife) birthday, and in an effort to express myself, I'm writing to her, and to you, if you're someone who has lost a loved one, lost heart, or simply need to remember that all that stands before us is greater than anything we leave behind...
Dear Abigail,
Happy Birthday!
I wish you could understand just how much your life has impacted mine, though as of right now, we have never been in the same room.
You know who I am, and maybe you know something of the grief I've experienced, but you should also know you've helped me overcome it.
You are so loved. Joey is so blessed, but, so are you.
The daughter you love was nurtured and cherished beneath a heart you never knew, but I wish you had. Oh, how I wish you had. Had you known Ashley, you would have known a person who startled the daylights out of
You would have met a girl who liked only the red skittles. I agreed with her. We always told one another "I love you a million red skittles." The reds are the best skittles, so they are the only ones that can be used in an expression of love :).
Here's where I get to what I came here to say:
Your life taught me something. It's this: When people go to be with Jesus, no one can ever take their place, but love is never to be thwarted by death. Indeed, Jesus himself taught us that death was defeated, conquered, and shamed by love. Grief is no joke. It's real, it's human, and it's necessary when
Thank you for offering me a chance to put my money where my mouth is, to love beyond the shattered terrain of my grief, and to remember that nothing is worth turning your back on the opportunity to pour out the vastness of His love on another person.
I will ever be willing to share my red skittles with you, and I say without reservation that I love you a million red skittles, not just because that's what Jesus (and Ashley) would want, but because, I promise, it's absolutely true.
Happy Birthday, darling. There are far, far better things ahead.
A million red skittles, always,
Courtney
Friday, March 20, 2015
Empty Handed
"Here I am, humbled by Your majesty, covered by Your grace so free. Here I am, knowing I'm a sinful man, covered by the blood of the lamb. Now I've found the greatest love of all is mine, since You laid down Your life, the greatest sacrifice.
Majesty! Majesty! Your grace has found me just as I am, empty handed, but alive in Your hands.
Here I stand, knowing that I'm Your design, sanctified by glory and fire. ...Your grace has found me just as I am, empty handed, but alive in Your hands."
"Wherever you are, be all there." ~Jim Elliot, martyred missionary
"I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all, but whatever I have placed in God's hands, that, I still possess." *Quoted originally by Martin Luther, and later, by Corrie Ten Boom*
Here I am...
When I say those words I think of a young Samuel in the temple as he realizes it is God, not Eli, who calls him. His actual response is "speak Lord, for your servant hears." Isaiah touches on "Here I am"
"And I heard the voice of the Lord saying "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" and I said "Here I am! Send me!" Isaiah 6:8.
Those three words are difficult words sometimes. Especially for me. Don't get me wrong, I love people, truly I do, but I am not fibbing when I say that if given the choice I would do everything with pen and paper, and I would not even have a computer on which to blog. I have my phone on silent consistently because some mornings, I wake up to 10 text messages, some of which are immediate, and some of which are "HI HOW ARE YOU?" Or "I hope your day is great!!!" What joy to have people like that, and what joy to hear there voices and connect with them, I wouldn't give that up. BUT, it's as though our generation expects people to be seven places at once. I go to lunch with teenagers who might as well have super glue in their palms while they snapchat and instagram themselves that's right, I said THEMSELVES...and I sigh. I have snapped my fingers at a couple of them and said "Hey, I'm over here." To say "here I am" is to be willing to be found, and willing to be used in whatever capacity asked, which means, sometimes, we have to really go beyond ourselves and be here, wherever here happens to be. Being "here" and all here means to submit our hearts to His heart, KNOWING that He cherishes our every beat.
Empty handed, but alive in Your hands...
About a month ago, someone I love very much recounted a trip she had taken to the other side of the world. It was a trip that required her, and the people with her, to raise support for the time they were there. She told me of the hardships and the pressures, and the fact that after considerable time in the beautiful country she had poured her heart into, not one person came to Christ. We talked about seeds and fruit, and how the Lord is always the one to make them grow, but still, it was a struggle for her not to feel as though her efforts left her empty handed.
Last week I sat on my couch engaging in a FaceTime call with someone else I love very much who works for a non-profit, and in a field where people are mean and attacking. What they attack is her faith, but what it feels like is a personal attack on her. I'm her "lights and sound technician" so to speak. I help her with brainstorming and edits on the articles she needs to verbally process. Sometimes, we remind each other what scripture says about us, as we go about doing our part to reclaim our nation by making an effort to restore her to her roots. Sometimes I get phone calls from my beloved sister friend in tears because she doesn't know how to address an attack, she feels as though her toil as left her broken hearted and empty handed.
Earlier this week I got a very kind email from the counseling center at a local campus explaining that they had chosen someone else for the internship I was seeking. When I walked into that interview I expressed myself honestly, and I pray, with grace and some amount of poise, though I have no idea about the last two. When I walked out, I didn't regret a single thing, and I knew that it was, indeed, in the Lord's hands. I felt a heaviness on the campus, which I prayed and wrestled through, and when they sent me that email, I couldn't help but feel as though I had , once again, come up empty handed.
Then it hit me...
That's exactly what I want.
That's exactly what I want, for myself, for the two other young women aforementioned, and for everyone I love. See, we only know the things we see before us. We have a minute slice of the full image. Being a detailed person, if the detail I can see doesn't seem to be yielding a desired result, it can be hard to realize there's more to the picture, there's more I can't see. He is responsible for those souls on the other side of the the world, and those hearts who seem to thrive on contention. He is responsible for the internships and the open doors, indeed, sometimes, the closed ones. Filling our hands with things, rewards, accomplishments, anything... can get in the the way of being willing to do whatever. I have decided, the only thing I want filling my hands at any time is someone else's hand, and perhaps I love the friends I do because I enjoy the fact that we can join our empty hands and let Him fill our hearts...together.
Heart full, hands empty,
C
Majesty! Majesty! Your grace has found me just as I am, empty handed, but alive in Your hands.
Here I stand, knowing that I'm Your design, sanctified by glory and fire. ...Your grace has found me just as I am, empty handed, but alive in Your hands."
"Wherever you are, be all there." ~Jim Elliot, martyred missionary
"I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all, but whatever I have placed in God's hands, that, I still possess." *Quoted originally by Martin Luther, and later, by Corrie Ten Boom*
Here I am...
When I say those words I think of a young Samuel in the temple as he realizes it is God, not Eli, who calls him. His actual response is "speak Lord, for your servant hears." Isaiah touches on "Here I am"
"And I heard the voice of the Lord saying "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" and I said "Here I am! Send me!" Isaiah 6:8.
Those three words are difficult words sometimes. Especially for me. Don't get me wrong, I love people, truly I do, but I am not fibbing when I say that if given the choice I would do everything with pen and paper, and I would not even have a computer on which to blog. I have my phone on silent consistently because some mornings, I wake up to 10 text messages, some of which are immediate, and some of which are "HI HOW ARE YOU?" Or "I hope your day is great!!!" What joy to have people like that, and what joy to hear there voices and connect with them, I wouldn't give that up. BUT, it's as though our generation expects people to be seven places at once. I go to lunch with teenagers who might as well have super glue in their palms while they snapchat and instagram themselves that's right, I said THEMSELVES...and I sigh. I have snapped my fingers at a couple of them and said "Hey, I'm over here." To say "here I am" is to be willing to be found, and willing to be used in whatever capacity asked, which means, sometimes, we have to really go beyond ourselves and be here, wherever here happens to be. Being "here" and all here means to submit our hearts to His heart, KNOWING that He cherishes our every beat.
Empty handed, but alive in Your hands...
About a month ago, someone I love very much recounted a trip she had taken to the other side of the world. It was a trip that required her, and the people with her, to raise support for the time they were there. She told me of the hardships and the pressures, and the fact that after considerable time in the beautiful country she had poured her heart into, not one person came to Christ. We talked about seeds and fruit, and how the Lord is always the one to make them grow, but still, it was a struggle for her not to feel as though her efforts left her empty handed.
Last week I sat on my couch engaging in a FaceTime call with someone else I love very much who works for a non-profit, and in a field where people are mean and attacking. What they attack is her faith, but what it feels like is a personal attack on her. I'm her "lights and sound technician" so to speak. I help her with brainstorming and edits on the articles she needs to verbally process. Sometimes, we remind each other what scripture says about us, as we go about doing our part to reclaim our nation by making an effort to restore her to her roots. Sometimes I get phone calls from my beloved sister friend in tears because she doesn't know how to address an attack, she feels as though her toil as left her broken hearted and empty handed.
Earlier this week I got a very kind email from the counseling center at a local campus explaining that they had chosen someone else for the internship I was seeking. When I walked into that interview I expressed myself honestly, and I pray, with grace and some amount of poise, though I have no idea about the last two. When I walked out, I didn't regret a single thing, and I knew that it was, indeed, in the Lord's hands. I felt a heaviness on the campus, which I prayed and wrestled through, and when they sent me that email, I couldn't help but feel as though I had , once again, come up empty handed.
Then it hit me...
That's exactly what I want.
That's exactly what I want, for myself, for the two other young women aforementioned, and for everyone I love. See, we only know the things we see before us. We have a minute slice of the full image. Being a detailed person, if the detail I can see doesn't seem to be yielding a desired result, it can be hard to realize there's more to the picture, there's more I can't see. He is responsible for those souls on the other side of the the world, and those hearts who seem to thrive on contention. He is responsible for the internships and the open doors, indeed, sometimes, the closed ones. Filling our hands with things, rewards, accomplishments, anything... can get in the the way of being willing to do whatever. I have decided, the only thing I want filling my hands at any time is someone else's hand, and perhaps I love the friends I do because I enjoy the fact that we can join our empty hands and let Him fill our hearts...together.
Heart full, hands empty,
C
Monday, January 12, 2015
The Fortunate Ones
"So come on out all ye children! Wake on up, it's time to dream! Callin' out for the young and the reckless, don't forget who we used to be." ~Cody Fry
"... to give them beauty for ashes, and a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." Isaiah 61:3
"When the Lord restored our fortunes in Zion, we were like those who dream." Psalm 126:1
"Your beginnings may seem small, so prosperous will your future be." Job 8:7
*Sigh* Happy...Happy...genuinely happy new year.
12 days in and this year has already started to be what I desired, a year of reconnection.
But..that's not what today's about...at least not my public musings today.
I have a few friends in my life who are as close as they come. A few who I consider more my sisters than my friends. I have a few people in my life who over the years have been mentors, mothers, and genuine inspirations to me. It is to the people in both of these categories, my fiercest and most beloved movers, that I dedicate the words to come.
One member of this group, especially, gets credit for the inspiration of this particular post.
This morning, this sister of mine emailed me. She welcomed me home, and after I explained something to her, she responded in true brief and powerful fashion...and her one line response is the basis for this blog.
She said "His plans for our lives are greater than we can even imagine. Don't forget. :)"
Don't forget.
So often, people *myself readily included* are tempted to believe that the negative things beyond our *my* control in life happen(ed) because we are forgettable, because we did wrong somewhere, or because it's the best we deserved. All three are massive lies. What's worse is that in my decade of mentoring I have seen SO MANY of my girls CLING to these lies. Thus, when they come lay their heads on my shoulder and weep on my couch, they find themselves somewhere akin to the Candy Land swamp. Stuck, and inevitably trying to pull the card that will release them from the dungeon. Some using all manner of reckless behavior to try, unsuccessfully, to unstick themselves.
They approach life with a fistful of ashes that God is just waiting to turn to gold, but, instead of shaking them out, they close their fists around the dingy soot piles in their hands and say that's all there is, leaving them empty, wanting, and covered in the leftovers of someone else's incendiary behaviors, or perhaps their own incendiary behaviors, behaviors that start fires, and leave soot and there they stand...covered in soot, and wounded by whomever covered them. Trust me...I know the girl, I was costumed in soot myself, standing in the swamp, trying to pull my own card once, I was...but that's not life...it's not a life anyone wants to live...and certainly not the one I want.
Today I went grocery shopping. My fridge and shelves suddenly filled after a month of barrenness in my absence. It occurred to me, I am among the fortunate ones. Fortunate. Quite literally, one who has good fortune. Fortune. It dawned on me how often we are content to cling to ashes and see our hearts grieved as they gradually find themselves covered in dingy gray. There we stand holding fast to an understanding that we have to keep those ashes because we are entitled to nothing else, or, often, because we are afraid to see what else could lay beyond them. I get that. I was there once. But, as one of my girls and I took shifts in the kitchen putting groceries in their places, I was astounded by how fortunate I am. Not only did I escape potential death as an infant, I had a rocky childhood, walked funny, struggled, and then conquered high school, college, grad school, law school, and grad school again. At 28, I sit and think about all of the things that could have meant the end for me, but God's plan for my life was indeed beyond what I had the capacity to imagine, then, and even more profoundly now.
I was born in a nation that celebrated my life as a disabled female infant, and in a nation where we have the capacity to save incredibly premature babies who come into the world long before they are ready. I'm allowed to go to school, and to proclaim my belief in an Almighty God who adores me. My refrigerator is full of, well, everything, and I am surrounded by advocates who remind me who I am, and who, when I am downtrodden, remind me of what used to be, and what is now.
If you are stuck, or clinging to the sooty things. Know this: You were not appointed to a life standing dingy and exhausted, hungry, and without. The God who created you is infinite. Whatever part of you yearns, know that God is a restorer of dreams. He is a hearer of cries. A knower of hearts.
He is the God who cherishes who you used to be, but wants to see you become who you were MEANT to be.
Dreamer, awake, shake the ashes from your hands, and let Him turn them to gold.
His plans for you are beyond your wildest imagination. He loves you, and whatever you may feel in your heart that causes you to believe otherwise, the truth is, you are among the fortunate ones. Don't forget.
Fortunately,
Courtney
"... to give them beauty for ashes, and a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." Isaiah 61:3
"When the Lord restored our fortunes in Zion, we were like those who dream." Psalm 126:1
"Your beginnings may seem small, so prosperous will your future be." Job 8:7
*Sigh* Happy...Happy...genuinely happy new year.
12 days in and this year has already started to be what I desired, a year of reconnection.
But..that's not what today's about...at least not my public musings today.
I have a few friends in my life who are as close as they come. A few who I consider more my sisters than my friends. I have a few people in my life who over the years have been mentors, mothers, and genuine inspirations to me. It is to the people in both of these categories, my fiercest and most beloved movers, that I dedicate the words to come.
One member of this group, especially, gets credit for the inspiration of this particular post.
This morning, this sister of mine emailed me. She welcomed me home, and after I explained something to her, she responded in true brief and powerful fashion...and her one line response is the basis for this blog.
She said "His plans for our lives are greater than we can even imagine. Don't forget. :)"
Don't forget.
So often, people *myself readily included* are tempted to believe that the negative things beyond our *my* control in life happen(ed) because we are forgettable, because we did wrong somewhere, or because it's the best we deserved. All three are massive lies. What's worse is that in my decade of mentoring I have seen SO MANY of my girls CLING to these lies. Thus, when they come lay their heads on my shoulder and weep on my couch, they find themselves somewhere akin to the Candy Land swamp. Stuck, and inevitably trying to pull the card that will release them from the dungeon. Some using all manner of reckless behavior to try, unsuccessfully, to unstick themselves.
They approach life with a fistful of ashes that God is just waiting to turn to gold, but, instead of shaking them out, they close their fists around the dingy soot piles in their hands and say that's all there is, leaving them empty, wanting, and covered in the leftovers of someone else's incendiary behaviors, or perhaps their own incendiary behaviors, behaviors that start fires, and leave soot and there they stand...covered in soot, and wounded by whomever covered them. Trust me...I know the girl, I was costumed in soot myself, standing in the swamp, trying to pull my own card once, I was...but that's not life...it's not a life anyone wants to live...and certainly not the one I want.
Today I went grocery shopping. My fridge and shelves suddenly filled after a month of barrenness in my absence. It occurred to me, I am among the fortunate ones. Fortunate. Quite literally, one who has good fortune. Fortune. It dawned on me how often we are content to cling to ashes and see our hearts grieved as they gradually find themselves covered in dingy gray. There we stand holding fast to an understanding that we have to keep those ashes because we are entitled to nothing else, or, often, because we are afraid to see what else could lay beyond them. I get that. I was there once. But, as one of my girls and I took shifts in the kitchen putting groceries in their places, I was astounded by how fortunate I am. Not only did I escape potential death as an infant, I had a rocky childhood, walked funny, struggled, and then conquered high school, college, grad school, law school, and grad school again. At 28, I sit and think about all of the things that could have meant the end for me, but God's plan for my life was indeed beyond what I had the capacity to imagine, then, and even more profoundly now.
I was born in a nation that celebrated my life as a disabled female infant, and in a nation where we have the capacity to save incredibly premature babies who come into the world long before they are ready. I'm allowed to go to school, and to proclaim my belief in an Almighty God who adores me. My refrigerator is full of, well, everything, and I am surrounded by advocates who remind me who I am, and who, when I am downtrodden, remind me of what used to be, and what is now.
If you are stuck, or clinging to the sooty things. Know this: You were not appointed to a life standing dingy and exhausted, hungry, and without. The God who created you is infinite. Whatever part of you yearns, know that God is a restorer of dreams. He is a hearer of cries. A knower of hearts.
He is the God who cherishes who you used to be, but wants to see you become who you were MEANT to be.
Dreamer, awake, shake the ashes from your hands, and let Him turn them to gold.
His plans for you are beyond your wildest imagination. He loves you, and whatever you may feel in your heart that causes you to believe otherwise, the truth is, you are among the fortunate ones. Don't forget.
Fortunately,
Courtney
Monday, October 27, 2014
Like the Cool Kids...
"She says 'I wish that I could be like the cool kids, cause all the cool kids they seem to fit in, I wish that I could be like the cool kids, like the cool kids." ~Echosmith "Cool Kids"
This song is everywhere on pop radio. I saw as a preview to a movie the other day. It's catchy, and maybe even kind of cute, maybe, but it's also something else...it's heartbreaking. Perhaps unintentionally, Echosmith has pierced the heart of mainstream American culture. We are (yes, we are) notorious for labels. The cool kid wears the hippest clothes, says the "right" words, and somehow maintains a following and a star for being part of "the in crowd." Anyone who finds himself (or herself) at the fringes of the cool kid circle just doesn't make the cut. But...who is it? Who is the invisible force who decides which ones get the "cool kid" designation?
Well, perhaps the answer has changed over the years, but today, right now, in 2014 America...it's culture. If we do not bow, don't wear the right clothes (which in some instances happens to be almost no clothes at all), if we don't tolerate everything, if we refuse to stand in the land of the gray, if we refuse relativism for absolutes...we're not cool kids anymore.
This is ludicrous.
Culture wants us to tolerate everything, culture says no values, no black or white, culture says no lines. To each his/her own. Culture says. In the wake of this tolerate everything mindset, culture demeans people. Culture says people should be held responsible for their own actions, that everything is ok, and we (the uncool kids) are the problem, and must simply learn to deal. Culture defines a cool kid in terms of acceptance and pseudo-compassion* *Saying nothing when people do things that ruin them IS NOT COMPASSIONATE*...
Culture says the cool kid gets cozy with everyone, that a cool kid doesn't act with *intolerance*. Give me a break, will you?
I've been mentoring girls since I was 16 years old. I have seen girls come to me after getting drunk, or worse, and have talked to them about why they did it, or whatever else they wanted to say. More often than not, the answer to the inquiry is this: "I felt pressure." So, to be a cool kid you have to do it the gray way, or no way at all? They tell us that we should be "tolerant" and accept everything...and then they apply HUGE PRESSURE to be just that way. But I thought we were supposed to be tolerant? I thought everything was relative? Cue the double standards.
Don't get me wrong, I understand compassion. I understand it intimately. It means that you don't let people destroy themselves. It means pity for the sufferings and misfortunes of others. Not everyone demanding my compassion and acceptance considers him/herself less fortunate, do they? No...these are the cool kids...and the bullies. They want me to be compassionate...and they'll beat me up to make me so.
I submit that culture has it all wrong about what makes a cool kid.
Cool kids sit at a red light singing "It's the End of the World as We Know it" at the top of their lungs.
Cool kids fall asleep at 8:30 after eating dinner, watching a movie, and enjoying time.
Cool kids are willing to stand up for what is right...and in my opinion, the coolest of kids believe that there is a such thing.
If culture's definition of cool kid wins out, I don't want to be one. If the other one wins out, I already am one.
Here's to my cool kids, the best coffee drinking, radio blaring, movie watching, popcorn eating crew any girl could ever ask for.
Keep your heads up... You're so cool,
Courtney
This song is everywhere on pop radio. I saw as a preview to a movie the other day. It's catchy, and maybe even kind of cute, maybe, but it's also something else...it's heartbreaking. Perhaps unintentionally, Echosmith has pierced the heart of mainstream American culture. We are (yes, we are) notorious for labels. The cool kid wears the hippest clothes, says the "right" words, and somehow maintains a following and a star for being part of "the in crowd." Anyone who finds himself (or herself) at the fringes of the cool kid circle just doesn't make the cut. But...who is it? Who is the invisible force who decides which ones get the "cool kid" designation?
Well, perhaps the answer has changed over the years, but today, right now, in 2014 America...it's culture. If we do not bow, don't wear the right clothes (which in some instances happens to be almost no clothes at all), if we don't tolerate everything, if we refuse to stand in the land of the gray, if we refuse relativism for absolutes...we're not cool kids anymore.
This is ludicrous.
Culture wants us to tolerate everything, culture says no values, no black or white, culture says no lines. To each his/her own. Culture says. In the wake of this tolerate everything mindset, culture demeans people. Culture says people should be held responsible for their own actions, that everything is ok, and we (the uncool kids) are the problem, and must simply learn to deal. Culture defines a cool kid in terms of acceptance and pseudo-compassion* *Saying nothing when people do things that ruin them IS NOT COMPASSIONATE*...
Culture says the cool kid gets cozy with everyone, that a cool kid doesn't act with *intolerance*. Give me a break, will you?
I've been mentoring girls since I was 16 years old. I have seen girls come to me after getting drunk, or worse, and have talked to them about why they did it, or whatever else they wanted to say. More often than not, the answer to the inquiry is this: "I felt pressure." So, to be a cool kid you have to do it the gray way, or no way at all? They tell us that we should be "tolerant" and accept everything...and then they apply HUGE PRESSURE to be just that way. But I thought we were supposed to be tolerant? I thought everything was relative? Cue the double standards.
Don't get me wrong, I understand compassion. I understand it intimately. It means that you don't let people destroy themselves. It means pity for the sufferings and misfortunes of others. Not everyone demanding my compassion and acceptance considers him/herself less fortunate, do they? No...these are the cool kids...and the bullies. They want me to be compassionate...and they'll beat me up to make me so.
I submit that culture has it all wrong about what makes a cool kid.
Cool kids sit at a red light singing "It's the End of the World as We Know it" at the top of their lungs.
Cool kids fall asleep at 8:30 after eating dinner, watching a movie, and enjoying time.
Cool kids are willing to stand up for what is right...and in my opinion, the coolest of kids believe that there is a such thing.
If culture's definition of cool kid wins out, I don't want to be one. If the other one wins out, I already am one.
Here's to my cool kids, the best coffee drinking, radio blaring, movie watching, popcorn eating crew any girl could ever ask for.
Keep your heads up... You're so cool,
Courtney